London Calling
by Zamelot
Summary: Because London is just the best place in the world. [oneshot] 20th fic!


_Summer + me one helluva writer's and artist's block. I've got every distration known to man in the palm of me hand and even as I sit down and try to draw or write, nothing happens. I managed to sort of finish this thingy so I'm happy to be putting something out, though I'll be honest and say that this is not and never will be my best. I'm rather disappointed in myself really. So: critcise me if you will. Tell me what to improve. Because I KNOW it needs improvement. I started watching/reading A Clockwork Orange in the middle of this, so you might see some influences here and there... The Clash was a big thing here too... ummm and I personally don't care if or not it follows the Tekken 4 story format b/c I haven't played it in a while since I'm working my fingers at Dirge of Cerebus. Overall, this was a free write to try to get over my efing writer's block. _

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_London Calling_

There was no doubt in the world that he was certainly what people called good looking. He had that all around European recessive attractiveness: platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pale complexion with a lighter undertone giving him a sort of glow when under certain light. With such a description, he could easily be lost in a crowd or overlooked what with the heavy similarity of all those living around him. Such was the case until it was mentioned that he had a long, grotesque scar on his left arm.

The scar was well known and more recognizable to the population than characteristics like blue eyes and blonde hair. Upon asking, many, from children to older generations, found him easy to identify. He was a hero among the young; the strongest in the country, but, for others, he was simply an obstacle. An obstacle unwilling to be overcome. However, as of late, he had become something more than an obstacle; he had morphed into a frustration. A hair whitening, heart attack causing _frustration_.

The mob had come to regard him with annoyance. Though the boy didn't really have connections, he was most difficult to locate. The last anyone admitted to seeing him was on the night of the fight. The bloke's own parents didn't even see him the following morning at breakfast and they had all learned that the veck had an especial liking for his cook's home made jelly. It was as if he had simply disappeared.

No. Disappeared was too immature and most impossible.

The subject had gone into hiding. Damn good hiding while he was at it.

The mysterious departure of the young boxer was very irritating to the "Don"; or so he liked to be called. His orders had been simple enough and should have been easy to carry out had it not been for the unfortunate, stubborn, and intolerable acts of young man at hand.

He refused their offer, defied their warnings, and then ran off with his tail between his legs. It made them all very irritable. The least that could have been done was for him to have fans, friends, or accomplices that weren't so loyal. It was most exasperating for them to know that it was possible that he was hidden by several of these people, and yet they had no proof that it was so.

"I want 'im found and brought to me bungalow in Livapool by the end of the month, 'ear?" the Don barked upon their return and failure at recovery. Their letdown in Derbyshire was most disappointing to him. "I'll blast away 'is brains meself."

Out of more vexation than disrespect, the first in command contradicted his boss's command. "I want to shoot 'im, Don," he mumbled.

The Don's response was a swift and powerful slap across his first's face; a strike that sent the lanky, red haired man sprawling. The Don's continued response appeared, to the man lying on the floor, incredibly immature and very "Hollywood".

"I wanna shoot the bloke! 'E's givin' me enough trouble—I don't need anymore from yeu!"

With that, he turned, his long duster billowing out behind him, and stalked out the door, but not before pausing and glaring at the red hair man propped up on his elbows on the floor. Once the Don's footsteps died away, the man on the floor scurried to his feet and dashed to the heavy, black telephone.

"Whut, th' 'ell ah ya doin', Johnny?" one of the members of the gang, a gruff, naturally bald, and heavy lidded man loosened his tie and looked over to his lanky, pale, auburn haired colleague. Johnny glanced up from where he was dialing on the phone, his green eyes set in his rather stoned façade and his thin red hair falling in wisps over his waxen face.

"The bastard's not in the city, 'is folks don't know whair 'e 'is, we cahn't find 'im; sos there's only one otha place 'e cahn be if nout out of England: the country syde." Johnny fingers slipped off the dial as he listened to the loud ring on the other end of the telephone. "If wes cahn't find 'im, Ah'm pretty sure she'll be able tue."

At that moment, the other line was picked up, a soft, female voice with a heavy Irish accent sounding.

"Wha cahn Ah du fo' ye?"

"Yes," Johnny immediately turned his back on his associates, bowing his head, his long, bony fingers resting on the open folder lying on the wooden desk. "Ah've 'eard about yew and that yew take calls. Ah need yew to find someone. 'Is name is Steve Fox. Blonde 'air, bleu eyes, and a long scah on 'is arm. A real ugly scah. Ya cahn't miss it."

Johnny glanced down at the folder, in the picture, the profile of a young woman with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a beautifully shaped Katharine Hepburn face, though it seemed to be a sort of cold beauty, stared away from him. Her full lips were smeared with red Bette Davis lipstick, and her eyes were outlined in black kohl and blue eye shadow.

"Think yew cahn du it?"

In response, the woman laughed out loud. "Ye du realize thaht yew've coulled Nina Williams, aye?" she asked, but without waiting for his answer, she continued on. "Ah get the job done aways."

Johnny shrugged and twisted the phone cord around his wrist. "Awright. Simply—"

"Steve Fox: professional boxa, hunted by yew and your boss, blonde 'air, long scah, and awl that jazz," she paused and a splashing noise as if she were in a bathtub sounded in her background.

"God, ah yew taking me seriously?" he inquired sulkily.

She sighed over the other end. "I'll find the blasted boy. Find 'im and bring yew 'is rotting corpse,"

"No," he barked suddenly. "Bring 'im alive. Ah will kill 'im." Behind him, one of his associates tried to interrupt him, but he hastily told them to shut up.

"Yew coulled me. Not the otha way around. Yew want me to du something, Ah du it my way."

Vexed, Johnny tried to retort until he realized that she had hung up on him. He slammed down the receiver and shoved the file off the desk before propping himself up on it. He stared back at his silent so called friends just as he realized that he had not given her any sort of contact information of where to bring Fox, where to find the gang, or how they could get a hold of each other.

"Get ye to th' fa' away towns! Now war is declared!" he cried jumping down, set in his determination to find Fox before the Williams woman.

The large, bald man then spoke up, aggravation in his tone: "Forget it, brother, yew cahn go at it alone,"

Johnny whipped around to face him; not at all caring about the significant difference in height, weight, and possibly strength there was between the two of them. "Ah don't want to shout," he said softly. "We're gonna find Fox first. We'll take a train and raid the country syde."

Resentfully, his men grumbled and filed out of the room, the last being the bald man as he placed a rather nasty eye on Johnny before turning his back. The country it would be. Lovely Wuthering Heights, Rosings, Pemberley, and all those vacationing places rich English people took residence.

However, unknown to them, Steve Fox wasn't at all in the countryside. In fact, he hadn't even left London. To continue on, he was currently right across the street the hotel in which Nina Williams herself resided. Such knowledge on her part didn't come from the air: she wasn't stupid, but nor did she follow boxing. Really; quite horrowshow.

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_Lovely dialogue, don't you agree? I thought I'd be realistic. Don't know how well that turned out. XD Anyway, inspire me, please. Help me out and make me look forward to writing some good... before I abandon my straight edge lifestyle and pull out the Jack Daniels... TT_


End file.
